


First Flight

by ShannonPhillips



Series: A Little Less Attitude and a Little More Altitude [1]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:03:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Kanan's learning the ropes as the newest member of Hera's crew, the pair travel to Sullust to make contact with a local protest movement. Unfortunately, things are never so simple. To complete the mission they'll need to navigate a course no other pilot would even attempt; descend into the bowels of an active volcano; fight off the local wildlife; and outrace a rising flood of magma. All in all, Kanan reckons it's a pretty good first day on the job. (Set immediately after <em>A New Dawn</em>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: there's a thread of self-loathing to Kanan's narration that improves over the course of the story. There's also several (highly related) references to binge drinking.

_Kanan Jarrus was in love._

_The_ Ghost _, Hera had called it. It was the ship he’d admired as it passed him on the way to Cynda days earlier—and it was a marvel. Roughly hexagonal in shape, it was a light freighter with lots of modifications—all of them, as near as he could tell, improvements. The two main engines jutting out the back were top-notch pieces of equipment, better than anything he’d seen on Gorse or anywhere else._

 _—_ A New Dawn

 

“Chopper, prepare for liftoff.” Hera’s lovely, rich voice echoes through the ship, startling Kanan. He’d been lost in admiring the layout of the engines.

A second later, a surge of dismay floods through him. Who’s Chopper? He’d gotten the distinct impression that Hera worked alone. She knows too much about him—if she spreads it to others—

Kanan pulls himself up the access ladder. From there it’s a straight shot fore to the cockpit. He feels the ship shudder beneath him as it launches, but orbital escape is incredibly smooth: he already knew Hera was an exceptional pilot, but he can’t help but be impressed.

As soon as the cockpit hatch opens, an ancient orange astromech—its struts mismatched and its chassis scored with the detritus of countless engagements—wheels to face him, issuing an angry stream of invective. Kanan doesn’t initially catch much of it, but when the droid extends an electroprod, he starts paying closer attention. _C1-10P == prepared to repel unauthorized boarder_ , the droid threatens. _C1-10P == engaging lethal force._

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Kanan cries, throwing up his hands. But Hera doesn’t seem alarmed; at least, she doesn’t turn around.

“Choppeeerrr,” she warns. “I _told_ you about this. Kanan’s crew now.”

The astromech gives a series of dubious—and borderline profane—responses, but it retracts the electroprod. “Kanan, this is C1-10P,” Hera says, still occupied with course inputs on the pilot’s console. “Chopper. He’s invaluable when a direct interface to the ship’s subsystems is needed.”

 _He._ Despite his relief that Chopper turned out to be just an astromech, it doesn’t escape Kanan that the droid has developed enough sentience to prefer a gender. “How long has this little guy gone since his last memory wipe?” he ventures. “Looks like he’s developed some…personality tics.”

At that, finally, Hera does turn around. “I’ve never wiped his memory,” she says flatly. “And if you do…” C1-10P is beeping threats, and waving around his grappling arms. But Kanan is more intimidated by Hera’s flat silence, and the sense he gets that she’s struggling to find something remotely socially acceptable to say. _I’ll space you_ hangs in the air between them, unsaid.

“I’ll put you off my ship at the next port,” she finishes, finally. “Chopper is a _crewmember_. Just like you.”

 _Oh, great_ , Kanan thinks. _A rogue AI_. C1-10P is giving some self-satisfied whistles, now. He’s not wearing a restraining bolt, nor does he show any signs of having borne one in the recent past. Kanan wonders, suddenly, if Hera might be younger than she looks. How young would she _have_ to be, not to have any memories of how dangerous unleashed droids can be?

That’s a nasty thought, especially given the number of times he’s offered to share her bed. “No memory wipes, got it,” he says, settling into one of the extra chairs in the back row of the cockpit. “Uh, Hera? How, um, how old are you?”

“Eighteen, why?” She’s turned back to the console, nimble fingers flying over its controls.

That’s still young, but Kanan’s only a few years older himself. She probably grew up early, just like him.  “No reason.”

She shoots him a _look_. Mostly to change the subject, he asks: “So where’d you get the ship?

“Mm, that’s a long story,” she says neutrally. “But it’s all mine. You have a chance to walk through all the decks?”

“I did,” Kanan says. “I’m impressed. It was a nice piece of engineering to start with and I noticed extensive upgrades. Those engines are top of the line.”

This time when she looks back at him it’s with approval. Kanan thinks that expression looks very good on her. “The engines are baffled,” she says. “And the _Ghost_ can mask both its signal and signature. You can sit up here, by the way.” She inclines her head at the co-pilot’s seat, beside her, so Kanan moves up to the front row.

“Very nice,” he answers, and slides her a grin. “I’d kill to fly it.”

“You’d have to,” she says flatly. “My ship. I’m the only pilot.”

He lifts a conciliatory hand. “Understood. But—you’ve been flying alone?”

The astromech makes an indignant grunt. “Chopper and I, yes.”

“You’re undercrewed,” he says. “Even with me aboard. This ship’s got more firepower than we can access—there’s two gunnery stations _and_ an auxiliary craft with a pretty heavy weapons array of its own. Love the modified docking, by the way.”

“The _Phantom_ ,” she tells him. “Yes. Now _that_ , you might get to fly. Also, I can operate the nose turret from here.”

“All right,” Kanan says thoughtfully. “So I can take either the _Phantom_ or the dorsal turret. Still leaves the other unmanned. And I imagine maintenance work on a ship this size must take up a lot of your time.”

That gets him another flash of her green eyes. “Hopefully less, now that you’re aboard. You obviously know something about engineering.”

Kanan leans back in the co-pilot’s chair, crossing one foot across his knee. “Just getting my job straight,” he says. “You’re running a big ship with a skeleton crew. So I’m gunner, auxiliary pilot, mechanic and sometimes bodyguard, that sound about right?”

“Mm, I don’t need a bodyguard. Maybe tactical field support.” She turns to face him fully, then. Her eyes travel over his face, assessing and frank. “If you’re good with all that.”

She absolutely needs a bodyguard, but he doesn’t mind doing that pro bono. “I’m good with _everything_ ,” Kanan smirks.

Her expression smooths out to a neutral, unreadable mask: she didn’t like the innuendo. Kanan feels an uncomfortable prickle of disappointment, aimed at himself—it wasn’t his intention to make her ill-at-ease, certainly not in her own home. _Rein it in_ , he thinks. _She doesn’t let many people on this ship in the first place, and she doesn’t need you acting like a leering clod now that you’re here._

“Let’s make the terms of employment clear,” Hera says crisply. “I can offer you room, board, and fifty credits a week.” That’s not much—significantly less than Kanan was making as a hazardous freight pilot. Good thing he’s not in it for the money. She must realize he’s worth more than she’s offering, because she adds: “Plus the occasional bonus for successful completion of mission objectives. In return, I expect you available for a standard shift of routine work each day, with one free day in every five. And sometimes, when we’re in the field, hours will be irregular and situations hazardous.”

“Irregular and hazardous is fine,” Kanan shrugs. “So long as the situations are also _discreet_. I told you, I’m signing up as crew—not as a revolutionary.”

She nods. “I’ll brief you on each operation before we get started. You can accept or decline on a case-by-case basis.”

“Sounds fair,” he says. “I accept your terms, Captain. Where are we headed now?”

“Well,” she replies, “why don’t you pick a bunk and stow your things? And then I’ll meet you in the mess deck for our first mission briefing.”

She turns back to her console, pretty clearly considering him dismissed. _C1-10P == keeping you in sensor range_ , the astromech threatens. _C1-10P == never sleeps._

“Nice to meet you too, you little rustbucket,” Kanan grumbles, pulling himself up to his feet. Everything he owns is in one pack, back down in the cargo bay. He swings himself down the ladder that he thinks will lead him back there, and is pleased when it does indeed drop him down to the entrance hatch. He’s starting to get the layout of this ship.

The crew quarters are directly behind the cockpit. One of the cabins—Hera’s, he assumes—is locked. The other three are identical, with double bunks and a generous amount of space. Kanan picks the one across from Hera.

The bunks have recessed shelving and four small drawers built into the base. There’s also a durasteel trunk in the cabin, which Kanan finds lightly stocked with bedclothes and linens. He unpacks his things, few as they are: a couple changes of clothes, spare parts for his blaster, toiletries and sundry gear. Until all that’s left, at the bottom of the pack, are the two relics he’s carried with him everywhere since he was fourteen. The only remnants of the Jedi he once was. His lightsaber, and Depa Billaba’s holocron.

Of the two, the holocron is infinitely more precious. But either would mean a death sentence for Kanan, if the wrong people learned that he had them. At the lowest points in his life he’s considered spacing both.

But he never did. He’s tried to keep himself walled off from the Force as much as possible, yet when he’s needed to draw on it, he’s found it as close as ever. It’s part of him; it’s part of everything. He can’t shut it out, no matter how hard he may try.

He drops his lightsaber into one of the drawers, pushing it to the very back. Then he reaches for the holocron. It seems to rise into his touch, and it’s warm in his hand. At the edges of his senses, Kanan feels its vast and patient power. Something of the minds of every Jedi who has contributed to its store of knowledge lingers within. There’s an echo of Depa Billaba there, along with countless others: that’s why he could never bring himself to part with it.

If Master Billaba could see what he’s become—a drifter and a brawler, living for the pleasures of the bottle and whatever pair of willing arms can pull him through the night—she’d be so disappointed. Kanan drops the holocron into the drawer and shuts it firmly.

Time to go see what sort of distractions Hera can field.

The mess deck on the Ghost is a small but comfortable space, with a dejarik booth and a galley tucked at the far end. Right now the holoprojector on the dejarik table is displaying a star map. Hera’s sitting in the booth, gnawing on a ration bar. “Do you want to grab something from the galley before we get started?” she offers. “You’re welcome to anything in there.”

“Sure,” he says…but after poking around for a bit, he sticks his head back out to ask: “Uh, Hera? Do you have any food in here?”

“There’s plenty!” she says in surprise. “Didn’t you see the ration bars?”

“No, I mean, _food_.” Off her bewildered expression, he elaborates: “That you wash and chop and cook.”

“Festival food?” She still looks confused.

“I’m not talking about a ronto roast with all the trimmings,” Kanan says. “Just…grains, tubers, leafy greens. A little meat or other protein to mix in.”

“That kind of stuff doesn’t store very well,” Hera says dubiously. “Sometimes I buy fruit in the local markets, but I usually eat it right away.”

“Well, that’s good,” Kanan mutters, as he ducks back into the galley. “Explains why you don’t have scurvy yet.”   

She heard that, though. “There’s vitamin and mineral supplements in the top right cupboard,” she calls. Kanan takes a look: along with the large varicolored pills he was expecting, there’s also small cylinders full of pebbly material, neatly labeled. “Magnesium.” “Calcium.” “Potassium.” He picks one up and returns to the common area.

“You eat rocks? Seriously? You _actually_ eat rocks.”

She looks back at him, and her confusion melts into something else. “Kanan,” she says carefully, “I’m guessing that wherever you grew up, food scarcity wasn’t an issue. _I_ grew up on Ryloth.”

Kanan can’t help but remember, just for a moment, simple meals prepared with attention and care. Eaten in a sunlight-filled communal room, in the company of others who cared for him and who he respected and admired. Hand-hammered serving bowls and beautifully carved wooden implements. Nothing ostentatious, but everything made with mindfulness and an appreciation of balance, form, motion, and detail. A variety of meals and always enough of them.

He also remembers fighting with rats over garbage. The stench of rotten food, and the effort of will it took to keep himself from retching as he gagged it down. He does remember hunger.

“All right,” Kanan says. “So I’m gunner, auxiliary pilot, mechanic, ‘tactical field support’—and cook.” He returns the minerals to their cupboard, grabs himself a ration bar and a cup of water, and goes to sit down across from Hera for their first shared meal. “Now you can tell me where we’re going.”

She sits up a little straighter and takes a deep breath. “Some planets, like my homeworld, resisted the Empire from the start,” she says. “But most welcomed the arrival of Imperial forces. They had suffered badly in the Clone Wars, and were eager to trade their liberties for what they saw as peace and security.”

Kanan takes a bite of his ration bar. “Don’t need the history lesson,” he says, around its dense and flavorless substance.

She adjusts the star map, narrowing in on the Western Reaches and the Outer Rim. “My point is, things are changing,” she says. “The Empire has consolidated its power in the Core Worlds, and is increasingly looking to strip worlds in the Mid and Outer Rim of their wealth in order to fund its continued military domination. As it squeezes these populations harder and harder, areas of resistance are forming.”

“Which the Empire cracks down on ruthlessly,” Kanan says, still chewing. “Anyone dumb enough to stick out their neck gets their head chopped off.”

Her mouth twists, but she doesn’t argue. “So far,” she admits. “But that’s because all these local movements have been disconnected, isolated from each other. Communication networks aren’t safe; all transmissions are monitored. The only way to pass information securely is to use trusted couriers.”

With the help of a deep swig of water, Kanan is able to wash down his first bite. He sees where she’s going with this. “One person in a fast ship. Maybe the kind of ship that can mask its signal and signature.”

For that, he gets a slight smile. “My work so far has focused on finding and cultivating contacts,” she says. “I’m building an information network that spans the Outer Rim. I meet with people, they tell me things, and then I pass that information on wherever it will do the most good.”

He shrugs. “Okay.” He can watch her back while she plays spy games with her revolutionary friends. As long as she’s smart about it, she can probably get away with that for a while. He eyes the ration bar, then decides to tackle another bite.

The star map changes again, focusing down to the Brema sector, and then to an obsidian planet spiderwebbed with lights. “Ever been to Sullust?” Hera asks.

Kanan just shakes his head, jaws working steadily at the gritty, sticky mass in his mouth. He’s known a few Sullustans, though. They’re like everybody else—mostly assholes.

“After the war Sullust was declared a vassal state,” Hera says, “meaning the Sullustans aren’t even citizens. But SoroSuub Corporation employs half the planet and enjoys extremely lucrative Imperial contracts. So long as they hit their manufacturing and mining quotas, the Empire doesn’t care how they treat their workers.”

Life’s hard everywhere. Kanan reaches for his water and waits for her to go on.

“Over the past year,” she says, “a new group calling itself the Cobalt Laborers' Reformation Front has begun petitioning Governor Tarkin to investigate dangerous and illegal working conditions on Sullust.” At this Kanan snorts, and Hera inclines her head. “Tarkin has made no official response to the campaign. Yet. And before he does, I’d like to have a quiet conversation with one of their leaders.”

“So we’re going to Sullust,” Kanan says. “You got a name?”

“Aadlan Myder.”

Kanan, who had been lifting his ration bar for a third bite, pauses mid-gesture. “Myder?”

“Yes,” Hera says. “Zaluna’s second cousin. She gave me his address. Although apparently they haven’t been in touch in twenty years.”

Zaluna isn’t an asshole. She’s a tough old broad with a mind like a clustered datacore, and Kanan vaguely hopes to make it out to visit her again someday, in her quiet house with the verdant garden. He likes thinking of her there, at any rate. It’s better than thinking of the ones he failed to save, like poor crazy Skelly. Or Okadiah.

Kanan’s appetite is suddenly gone. He pushes up from the table, grabbing his water and the rest of the ration bar to take back to the galley. “How long to Sullust?” he calls while he’s cleaning his cup and stowing everything away.

“Six hours. You should get some rest if you can.”

He doesn’t love that idea. He’s only slept in fits and starts since they built a cairn for Okadiah on Cynda. His other ghosts, the unburied ones, are pushing too close. Next time he goes to sleep he either wants to be hammered first, or in the company of someone who’ll shake him if he starts thrashing. And since Hera doesn’t seem about to invite him to warm her bunk—he’d better pick up a bottle of something on Sullust.

“Put me to work,” he offers instead, when he emerges again from the galley. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

Her brilliant green eyes linger speculatively on his face, but all she says is: “How are you with transgravitational conduit splices?”

***

Six hours later, an intermittent weak spot in the ship’s gravity has been resolved, and the _Ghost_ is orbiting the lava-sculpted world of Sullust. Half the planet’s surface is covered with belches of ash and toxic gases from its ever-active volcanos; the enormous factories below can be glimpsed through swirls of smoky atmosphere as twinkling lights nestled between traceries of magma. Hera’s in the cockpit of the _Phantom_ , with Kanan in the passenger seats just behind. She’s giving Chopper last-minute instructions over the com.

“You trust that astromech to pilot the whole ship while we’re gone?” Kanan asks her, quietly, after she switches off the link.

“I’ve had Chopper for a long time,” Hera says. “He’d say he’s had _me_ for a long time. I know he’s cantankerous, but he’s also far more flexible and creative than most droids.” Her voice softens as she adds: “And he’s always come through for me.”

Kanan catches himself wondering what he’d have to do to hear Hera talk about _him_ in that fond tone, and then mentally kicks himself. Just because she’s beautiful, principled, and ferociously competent doesn’t mean he’s going to turn into some crush-riddled mooncalf trotting at her heels. He’s along for the ride, that’s all; and if something happens between them, it’ll be a nice bonus. _Rein. It. In_ , he thinks to himself, for the second time that day.

The _Phantom_ undocks. Kanan’s noticed that the small craft has aspects of both shuttle and starfighter: it’s much roomier than a dedicated-purpose fighter, and surely less agile as a result, but it’s also outfitted with both twin laser cannons and a dorsal turret—much more serious armaments than an ordinary passenger shuttle would carry. “The _Phantom_ ’s got shields, yeah?” he asks.

“Mm-hm,” Hera confirms. “Plus a jammer of its own.” The black swirling face of Sullust takes up more and more of the view as she angles their craft towards the surface. She toggles a switch and says into the com: “This is the passenger craft _Eos_ from the freighter _Alema_ , requesting entry to Pinyumb. _Eos_ to Pinyumb.”

A moment later there’s a bored response, crackling from the com: “We read you, _Eos_. State the nature of your business in Pinyumb.”

“Refueling, resupply, and recreation,” Hera says. “Transmitting crew identifications now.” The _Phantom_ has plunged into a cloud of volcanic ash: all Kanan can see to the fore are the lights from the instrument panel.

“Responding with flight path and docking permit, _Eos_ ,” the voice on the other end says. “Your crew is cleared for three-day tourist visas. Should you choose to stay on Sullust for an additional period, your visas will require renewal. Please enjoy your visit.”

“Understood,” Hera says—but the transmission has already cut off.

“I’m assuming those weren’t our real identification numbers?” Kanan drawls, with some amusement.

“I don’t _have_ your real identification number,” Hera points out. “But what I sent them are valid Imperial citizen IDs. I told you—I’ve already made some contacts.”

“Do I have a new name that I need to remember?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. The _Phantom_ emerges from the ash cloud, headed directly for a yawning opening in the planet’s surface. There’s a magnetic shield across the entry, presumably to maintain the integrity of the atmosphere within: the Phantom passes through without incident. Inside, lights on each side of the tunnel guide them deeper into the planet’s crust. Other craft fly alongside them, both coming and going.

“I don’t usually give my last name,” Hera says finally. Kanan blinks, realizing that’s true—she’s never given it to him. “If you want an alias, that’s not a bad idea. But it’s up to you.”

Layering assumed names on top of an assumed name—it starts to feel schizophrenic. “Kanan Jarrus isn’t the name I was born with,” he says shortly. “I’ll keep it until I need another.”

“Fair enough,” is all she says.

The intake tunnel opens up into a hangar. Hera pilots the _Phantom_ into its assigned berth, setting it down gently and expertly. Kanan jumps out first when the airlock opens, scanning for any threat: but it’s just crews loading and unloading, none paying any special attention to their little shuttle. The few guards standing around near the exits are wearing corporate uniforms, not stormtrooper armor. If there’s an Imperial presence here, it’s light.

Hera swings out gracefully and seals the airlock behind them. “There’s a turbolift that will take us down to Pinyumb proper,” she says. “Over there.”

Two guards—one human, one Sullustan—give Kanan and Hera a bored once-over as they approach the lift. She smiles, and the human nods back in a friendlier way. Kanan catches himself scowling, thinks about trying for a nicer expression, and decides not to bother.

The lift itself is a wonder. Its walls are transparisteel, giving them a full view of the city as they’re lowered down to ground level. Pinyumb is built in a vast underground cavern, and its artificial towers rise like stalagmites, the tallest of them actually supporting the cave ceiling. The lights of the residences within glimmer in the perpetual twilight, their reflections sparkling like stars from the obsidian crystals overhead. Some kind of dusk-winged creatures wheel in the shadowy heights.

As they step off the lift, it’s into a commercial district. Neon signs and flashing holos advertise shops and services to the foot traffic and speeders weaving among the towers. They pass a liquor store, its gleaming array of bottles arranged in the window with alchemical precision, and Kanan marks its location for the way back.

Hera turns onto a side street, then draws up in front of one of the residential towers. This one isn’t as high as some of the others, and its façade is unornamented. There’s a simple terminal near the doors. Hera scrolls through the resident listings and punches a button. After a moment a female voice answers, speaking Sullustese—Kanan’s Sullustese is rusty, and it doesn’t help that the woman has an unfamiliar accent or possibly a speech impediment, but he thinks it’s a standard greeting.

“My name is Hera. I’d like to talk to Aadlan Myder,” Hera says into the com, and the doors to the residence tower slide open.

Hera seems to know where she’s going, so Kanan follows her, up three flights of stairs and down a hallway. One of the doors is open, and as they near it, a Sullustan woman emerges. “You’ve come to say goodbye to Aadlan?” she says in thick Basic.

There’s a milky film over the edges of her large black eyes. Her lower jowl flap, normally moist on Sullustans, looks dry and chapped. The woman is dehydrated—yet as they approach, two streams of white liquid trickle from the corner of her eyes, and Kanan suddenly realizes why he thought her voice sounded strange. She’s crying.

He has no idea how to react, but Hera instinctively reaches out, placing her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Goodbye?” Hera asks, her voice full of concern. “I didn’t know he was ill.”

“He’s not ill.” That’s another woman, younger-looking than the first, coming out to stand beside the other: glancing inside the residence, Kanan sees that a small crowd of Sullustans are inside. Could be a big family, but it looks more like a gathering. “He’s being murdered.”

Hera drops her hands, and the young Sullustan puts her arm around the crying one, speaking softly in Sullustese. The older woman lets herself be drawn back into the residence. The young woman glances back over her shoulder at Kanan and Hera, jerking her head to indicate they should follow. Hera does so, readily, and Kanan falls in behind.

Others move to embrace the crying woman, drawing her into their circle. The younger Sullustan stops and turns to face Hera. “I’m Zien Mylar,” she says. “How do you know my father?”

“I was given his name by his cousin Zaluna,” Hera says. “I was hoping to talk about his work with Cobalt Front. I don’t know anything about…” She’s good; she only takes a second to find the right word. “…the emergency.”

“Cobalt Front is _why_ the _emergency_ is happening,” Zien snaps. “SoroSuub is calling it an accident, but we have a saying here. ‘Accidents can happen to anyone, but they always happen to troublemakers.’”

“Will you tell me what happened?” Hera asks gently.

“My father and his entire crew were trapped inside a side tunnel when a magma vent diverted behind them,” Zien says. “They don’t have the equipment they’d need to get out, and all SoroSuub will say is that ‘rescue efforts are continuing.’ But my father says there’s been no contact at all from his superiors.” Zien turns her head, the black orbs of her eyes fixed very steadily on a blank point in space. Her voice remains steely. “Sometimes his com signal still gets through. They’re going to die of thirst down there.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hera says. “Is there any way we can help? What kind of equipment would they need?”

“Massive earth-movers,” Zien says bitterly. “Industrial grade lava dams, and the kind of specialized expertise required to reroute an active magma flow without melting the whole passage and drowning the miners in fire. Only SoroSuub could do it. But they _won’t_.”

Hera murmurs something that Kanan doesn’t quite hear, because something’s been tickling at the back of his thoughts and now it’s pushing forward. He has no idea what to say to these people, and certainly he doesn’t have the Hera’s ability to respond with open and genuine compassion. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t moved by the tragedy. In fact, he can picture the scene pretty clearly, and… “You said they’ll die of thirst,” he says suddenly. “Why not suffocation?”

Zien looks taken aback, and Hera’s eyebrows draw together sharply. Yes, yes, he _knows_ that question was rude and insensitive. But he needs the answer.

“There are vents to the surface,” Zien says, “and they have filtration masks, so the toxins aren’t an issue.”

Hera takes up the thread of the conversation, now. Good: she sees the point of it. “I take it there’s no way to get to them through those vents?” she asks, her voice still gentle and full of sympathy.

Zien nods her head, once, sharply. “The surface is impassable,” she says. “They don’t have climbing gear and even they did it wouldn’t help; they’d be just as stranded on the surface as they are underground.”

Hera’s not abandoning this angle. “Not even by shuttle?”

“ _Especially_ not by shuttle. The volcanos are constantly spewing ash and gases and sometimes magma. There’s no visibility and the lava geysers are completely unpredictable. It would be like—like—” Zien fumbles for words.

“Like flying an asteroid field with four TIE fighters on your tail and a scrambled sensor array?” Hera prompts.

“Yes!”

“I’ve done that. If you can get us the climbing gear and the target coordinates, we’ll go.” Hera’s eyes flick to him. “Or I’ll go.”

“We’ll go,” Kanan says immediately. The words are out of his mouth before he’s really considered them, but even on reflection he doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea. “Hera’s the best pilot I’ve ever seen,” he says to Zien. “Probably the best in the Outer Rim, and that may be selling her short.”

Zien looks over her shoulder, back at the group of mourners. Then she turns back to Hera and Kanan, stepping closer. “I’m not going to get my mother’s hopes up,” she whispers fiercely. “But if you’re really going to try and rescue my father, I will get you _anything_ you need.”

***

Kanan feels a little less sure of the plan once they’re actually in the air. The _Phantom_ is graceful as ever in Hera’s hands, weaving through gouts of flaming rock and threading in and out of black clouds of ash. But as they near their target, the atmosphere grows denser and he notices Hera’s lekku have gone stiff with tension.

“Problem?” he asks softly.

“No problem,” she says, in voice that thrums with stress. “It’s just…I was hoping to pick up on some kind of pattern to the lava spouts. But there really isn’t any, and the instrument panel’s not giving me any warning either.”

 _She’s got this_ , Kanan tells himself. He doesn’t want to open himself up to the Force—not at all, and certainly not here. This planet, with its roiling instability and barely-leashed fury, echoes something inside himself he doesn’t want to look at. But his unease grows.

“Kanan,” Hera says. “Can you…help? I know you can—sense things.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says tightly.

Then the shuttle’s interior is bathed in brilliance as, with no warning at all, a column of fire surges up directly in their path. Hera yanks hard on the steering and Kanan is thrown backwards as the _Phantom_ climbs directly upward. They outrace the rising magma by mere meters.

“Blast,” Hera mutters. “That was our landing coord. Resetting target and circling around for another pass.”

Kanan picks himself up. “Hera—” he starts.

“Either help or stow it,” she snaps.

He doesn’t sit down. Instead he goes to stand behind Hera and drops one hand on her shoulder. She shoots him a startled look: he glares back at her, making no effort at all to conceal his unhappiness. Then he closes his eyes and stretches his free hand out before him.

Hera, under his hand. He starts with her; he can open himself to her. He’s not afraid of what the contact will show him. And, indeed, seen through the Force she’s even more beautiful—her compassion and her courage shine with a pure and undimmable light. He is already oriented to her like a comet to its star. That makes everything else easier, actually.

Around them and under them Sullust is a much more complicated presence. The planet is in pain. Not so much from its ceaseless volcanic activity—there’s a kind of balance in that ever-changing instability, a rhythm to the chaos. But the factories that riddle its surface and the mines that bore into its depth are upsetting its own fragile harmony-in-motion, and the people—the people are exhausted, overworked, impoverished, and afraid. The Force here is not in balance.

Kanan has to reckon with that, resolve it somehow within himself, before he can connect with the fundamental harmonies. Grief, he knows grief. Exhaustion, he carries that in his body. Fear and pain, he knows. They exist but they can be borne.

And still there is Hera, still there is this slender steady unquenchable flame, and _that_ must be preserved or the darkness will take everything. “Starboard,” Kanan murmurs aloud. “Fifteen degrees starboard.”

The _Phantom_ shifts, this time easily avoiding another gout of magma. The surface is growing closer. Hera’s making for a shelf of stable rock—no. “ _No_ ,” Kanan says, urgently, tightening his fingers on her shoulder. That ledge is steady in the same way Kanan’s steady after three shots. It’s stable like his wrist is stable when he locks it for a punch. “Don’t land there. Look up—there’s a ridge.”

“That ridge is the lip of a volcano!” Hera’s voice is sharp and disbelieving, but she’s already evening out their descent, nosing upward for the spot he’s suggested.

He doesn’t know how to tell her that it’s because the volcano has already vented its anger that it’s safe, for now. He doesn’t have to. She trusts him enough to do what he says even while she’s complaining about it. That’s good to know.

The _Phantom_ makes its landing, precise and sure, the weight of the ground jolting up against them as they surrender their momentum. Kanan opens his eyes and drops his hand. “Don’t ask me to do that again,” he bites out.

Hera places her gloved fingers on top of his. He hadn’t noticed that his other hand was still resting on her shoulder. “I need you to do that again,” she says gently.

He draws his hand away and turns his back on her, rummaging for the gear that Zien gave them. He pulls out two filtration masks, tosses one over his shoulder to Hera, and fits the other over his face. “No, you don’t,” he says finally, and takes some small amount of satisfaction in the way the mask distorts his voice. He already has the feeling she can read him better than he’d like.

Hera’s voice is imploring, even through the mask. “We’re not at the coordinates Zien gave us,” she says. “Those…exploded. I don’t know where the miners _are_ from here.”

“Down,” Kanan says tersely. “Look for life signs on the _Phantom_ ’s sensors.”

“I’m not picking up anything,” she says. “Either they’re too deep for sensors to pick up, or…”

“Or they’re dead,” Kanan finishes, hefting the bag with the rest of Zien’s gear onto his shoulder. “In which case this is all for nothing.” He keys open the airlock, and a blast of hot and sulfurous air hits his face. They won’t be able to stay out in this for long.

Hera follows him out of the shuttle and closes it behind them. “So,” she says. “Which way?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“ _Kanan_ ,” she says, and the mask still isn’t enough to disguise the layers of emotion she can put into one word.

“Hera, you don’t understand,” he snaps back. “That was _dangerous_. As a one-time thing, to save our hides, maybe it’s justified. But I can’t let myself get used to it and I can’t let _you_ rely on it. Every single time I open myself up to the Force I’m putting us both at risk.”

She reaches for him, catching his elbow in her hand. Above the filtration mask her huge green eyes are beseeching. “I believe you,” she says. “But if all you do is fight for your own life, then your life is worth nothing.”

Kanan’s life has been worthless for a long time now, and he opens his mouth to tell her that—except that she’s still shining in his sight, not on any spectrum he can see with his eyes: but her presence surrounds him with light nonetheless, even as ash and smoke blacken the air around him. She’s not going to give up. She’s going to keep trying until she either rescues those people or falls into lava, and if he can make a difference between those two outcomes then…then that _is_ worth something.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply behind the filtration mask. Hera’s still holding his other elbow, so he twists his arm just enough to reach backwards, palm up, and offer his hand instead. After just a moment she takes it.

With her steady, grounding presence at his side, he can cast his awareness outward. Tapping in now not just to the general rhythms of the planet, but _asking_ for something—for a path. The Force moves through all things but especially through living creatures. He looks for the currents, traces the ones that eddy out from Hera and himself toward the other nearest sources of life. And when he has the thread firm in his mind, he tugs Hera’s hand and begins to walk.

It’s…strange, allowing the Force to flow through him in the presence of someone else, when he spent so long desperately trying to never let it show. He should be terrified but he actually can’t be, not while he’s tapped into something so vast it obliterates his own fears. Or maybe he’s not afraid because it’s Hera, and he’s already determined that he trusts her with more than his life.

They’re heading down, into the mouth of the volcano. They’ve only gone a little distance before Kanan has to open his eyes and drop her hand: the way down is too steep to navigate alone. He shrugs Zien’s bag of gear from his shoulder and opens it, passing Hera the climbing gear. She works with steady efficiency to establish a solid anchor and clip herself to it.

Kanan does the same, then lets himself begin to slide and skid downward. Soon enough the passage becomes a vertical conduit, requiring them to lower themselves hand by hand and foot by foot: Zien’s gear helps with that, too, but it’s still slow going. The cheek-lamps on their filtration masks automatically kick on, emitting thin blue beams of light that are swallowed by the black chasm depths.

They descend into darkness. The planet shifts and groans around them; the distant, arrhythmic hiss of venting steam never entirely ceases. Even through the masks the air smells terrible.

“You’re sure we’re not going to get cooked by a sudden outgassing?” Hera asks, above him.

“No,” Kanan says shortly.

“Oh, well, thanks for the reassurance.”

Another long and silent descent. “Here,” Kanan says finally. “There’s a side passage—just a crack, but I think we can squeeze through.” The thin, unsteady current he’s following tugs in that direction, anyway.

“Right behind you,” Hera says. “Metaphorically speaking. Literally I’m above and a little to the right.”

She’s joking, but he knows precisely where she is. He doesn’t have to look. Ever since he met her he’s been extremely—and exactly—aware of her presence whenever she’s near. Just like he always knows the exact location of his lightsaber, no matter how long it’s been since he’s held it. He hadn’t been surprised at all when he realized he was already linked to Hera through the Force, because on some level he’d known it the whole time.

It should probably piss him off. Kanan doesn’t enjoy feeling manipulated. But then, it’s not Hera’s fault that she’s someone who can convince him to do…something like this. And if he’s letting the Force flow through him again because of her, then of course its current will draw him towards her; it would have to. Cause and effect get a little wonky when the Force is involved. He can’t really think about it and stay focused like he needs to, so he puts the whole tangle aside.

The cave wall scrapes against his back as he eases himself through the crack. The passage on the other side is thankfully wider, and more or less horizontal, although it trends upward again. He reaches a hand back to help pull Hera through the crack, but she doesn’t really need it: she’s smaller than him, so the space isn’t as tight for her. He sees the blue lights of her mask, then her whole face as she emerges. Her eyes immediately widen, focusing on a point over his shoulder.

“Kanan,” she breathes. “Don’t move.”

Kanan goes still, quieting even his breathing. Moving with terrible slowness, Hera reaches for the holdout blaster in her boot. Then—as soon as it’s in her hand—she surges into action, bringing it up and firing in one swift and fluid motion. Kanan feels the heat of the particle beam as it passes his cheek. He turns then, drawing his own blaster, but all he sees is the cave tunnel leading into darkness. Until he glances down, and his mask-lights sweep across a huge red-striated beetle spasming on the cavern floor. It’s as big as his forearm.

“Drutash scarab,” Hera says. “Very, very poisonous. Their grubs are a delicacy though, we should see if…” She shoulders past him, ignoring the still-twitching insect to start brushing earth from the cavern wall. The shelf of basalt illuminated by her lights slides off and crumbles to the floor. Glistening in the sudden spotlight are about a dozen dark grey, skull-faced worms, segmented and plump. Hera makes a pleased noise. Kanan suppresses a shudder.

While she’s plucking the grubs from the wall and dropping them into the pockets of her flight suit, Kanan aims the heel of his boot at the beetle’s head. It crunches beneath his foot and the creature curls and goes still. No living thing should be left to suffer, even if it was about to send him to a painful end.

He has a bad thought, then: were _these_ the beings that he’d sensed in the Force? But when he concentrates, opening himself up again to the flow of life energy, he feels the current still drawing him forward.

They retrieve their cables from the climb, and then Kanan takes the lead again, pacing up the tunnel. They’re closer now, he can feel it. He moves his head from side to side as he goes, playing the beams of his filtration mask over the tunnel ahead, but only lava-rock glitters back.

Focused as he is on the timeless rhythms of the Force, Kanan couldn’t say how long they’ve been walking when the tunnel suddenly opens up. It’s a pretty small chamber—more or less circular, though with a rippling, spiky texture to the ceiling—and the main passage continues on the other side, still angling back up to the surface. But the life he senses is _below_ them now. Kanan steps to the side, playing his lights over the edges of the cavern.

And then—just for a second—there’s an answering light. A flash, down deep below: there’s a collapsed area, no wider than his arm, and something far below. _Someone_. “Hera,” Kanan says urgently, sinking to one knee to examine the hole more closely. “Hera, I think they’re—” But he cuts off his words when a babble of voices rises up to them. There’s a hoarse shout, in Sullustese.

Hera’s right there beside him, calling down. “Are you the trapped miners? My name is Hera and my partner is Kanan, we’re here to help.”

Silence for a moment. Then the same voice: “Are you from SoroSuub?”

“No, we’re independent,” Hera calls. “Zien Myder sent us. What is your condition?”

The many voices, again, speaking Sullustese too quickly and too far below for Kanan to follow their speech. Then: “There’s five of us. I’m Aadlan Myder. Do you have water?”

“Yes, we’ll lower it,” Hera calls. Kanan spools out cable as Hera locks a canteen to the end and threads it down through the hole. Sixteen meters before the line is grabbed at the other end. More distant talking.

“My daughter hired you?” Aadlan calls.

“Yes,” Hera answers—if they’re actually getting paid for this it’s news to Kanan, but he supposes it’s the simplest way to establish a relationship. “We have a shuttle on the surface. We came that way, and if we can get you up here we can take you back that way too.”

The babble of voices takes on a distinctly alarmed tone—protests, objections. What Kanan now recognizes as Aadlan’s voice threads through the tumult, taking a calming and pacifying tone. Hera gives them a few minutes to confer, then calls down: “The surface route is our only hope. But if you trust us, I promise that you’ll see your families again.”

Aadlan is the only one to answer. “We have little choice, stranger.”

“Good,” Hera says firmly. “We need to make a wider opening to bring you through. Do you have any suggestions?”

Aadlan makes a noise that, choked and hoarse as it is, sounds like a laugh. “Hera, was it?”

“That’s right,” Hera calls down.

“Hera, we are miners. Yes. We can make you a hole.”

Kanan stands back as the details are hammered out. He should feel relief now that they’ve found Aadlan and the others. Instead, he feels a growing unease—just as he had aboard the _Phantom_ , before they nearly flew into a magma spout. “Hurry,” he growls to Hera.

The blue beams of her facemask flash into his eyes as she looks up. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “We’re running out of time.”

She goes back to coordinating the logistics of the extraction, this time putting more urgency into her directions. Kanan paces, trying to narrow in on a sense of the danger’s source. It’s frustratingly vague. It’s all around. The planet is hurting, the Force is unbalanced—Okadiah is dead, Kanan needs a drink—if they die here it’ll be in fire, or maybe ash.

Or, for the long odds, giant poisonous beetles. But he doesn’t see any of those.

Hera and the miners have decided to use explosives on the hole. They’ve attached the detonators to the cable and she reeled them up: now she’s placing them, following Aadlan’s instructions. She and Kanan retreat back down the tunnel before she triggers the blast, but it’s hotter and brighter and louder than he expected, and as a cloud of dust and silt sweeps toward them he instinctively spins, ducks his head, and pulls Hera against him to shield her. Meaning he looks pretty foolish a few seconds later, when the cloud settles and leaves nothing worse than a little dust on their shoulders. He lets her go and steps back, muttering an apology: he’s too tense, and there’s still _something_ , a danger that’s swelling and swelling all around them.

He turns to spare her the awkwardness of a reply, and strides back to the hole, Hera close on his heels. It’s definitely bigger now—probably big enough to pull up a Sullustan. “Everyone all right down there?” he calls.

“We’re well enough to move,” Aadlan shouts back. Kanan can see all five of them now, as blue lights far below.

“I’ll set the anchor,” he says. “Throw them down the harnesses and we’ll pull them up.” He’s working as he speaks, and Hera’s right there with him. He hears the chatter as the miners gear up.

Then something rumbles beneath their feet. Hera jerks her head up. “Did you feel that? What was that?”

“Hera!” Aadlan yells. There’s fear in his voice. “Hurry!” The other Sullustans are speaking in their liquid language, syllables rolling over each other. Panicked.

“Two at a time! Come on!” Kanan shouts down. As soon as they’re clipped to the cables he starts hoisting. Hera’s right behind him, pulling as well. A dim blue glow suddenly resolves into the grimy face of a masked Sullustan woman with a face-lamp on each cheek. Kanan grabs the miner under the arms and hauls her fully into the cavern, then reaches for the man behind her. As the second miner is dragged into the upper passageway the whole cavern shakes again.

“Two more!” Kanan shouts, throwing the cable back down. Behind him Hera is asking quietly:

“What is it? What’s going on?”

One of the miners answers in heavily accented Basic: “Rockrender.”

“It felt explosion. It comes,” the other elaborates.

Kanan doesn’t have time to worry about what that means. He’s got two more people to pull up. Hand over hand, as fast and as hard as he can pull—the first two miners are helping now, so it goes faster. Two more dirty, exhausted Sullustans are hauled up into the cavern. There’s enough ambient light now that Kanan can see things even when he’s not looking directly at them.

Kanan throws down the cable: “Let’s go!” he yells to the last miner.

There’s another tremble, and this one goes on and on, only growing stronger as Kanan and the others pull up the last of the miners. Kanan is at the very lip of the hole, and the Sullustan is looking down—the beams from his face-lamps illuminating the cavern floor—which is how Kanan is able to see as well as feel the explosion of rock below. Breaking into the cavern is a giant beast—reddish, quadrupedal, with enormous curved talons the size of Kanan’s body, and a set of tusks to match.

It shakes off the rubble it created with its own entrance and lifts its head, as if sniffing. The last of the miners is dangling only about a meter above the beast. But Kanan and the others are pulling as fast as they can, and that distance widens: as the Sullustan is lifted, the light recedes, and the rockrender is left in darkness.

“Hurry! Hurry!” the miner shouts as Kanan grabs his forearm. He recognizes the voice: it’s Aadlan.

“I’ve got you,” Kanan says. “Don’t worry. Unless that rockrender can fly, it can’t get you up here.”

But Aadlan’s huge black eyes are rolling wildly, and even when he’s hoisted up fully into the cavern he doesn’t seem calmer. “The rockrender’s not the danger!” he pants. “The paths it opens are the danger! Look!”

He’s pointing back down. Kanan leans over, peering through the hole: yes, the rockrender’s still down there. He can see it. He can see it because behind it, in the passage it made, there’s a dull orange glow that’s getting steadily brighter.

Kanan wheels around, looking for Hera. When his gaze locks with hers he says tersely: “Magma rising.”

He sees the understanding in her face. “Go!” she snaps to the Sullustans, flinging her arm out—pointing back the way they came. “Run!”

“Not that way!” Kanan says immediately. It’s too far, they’ll never make it. “Up! Go up!” There’s probably enough pressure behind the rising volcanic explosion to fill the tunnel both downhill and up, but they can hope to reach the surface first.

Hera nods tightly and reaches for the miners, pulling them into action. Aadlan is the first to start running uphill: Hera guides the others, pushing at their shoulders until they stagger after him.

They herd the miners up the passage, Hera shouting encouragement the whole time: “Faster! Run! Aadlan, if you want to see your wife and daughter again, you need to _run_!”

They’re trying. But the Sullustans are exhausted, already suffering the effects of dehydration, and their stumpy little legs can’t move very fast anyway. Kanan seriously considers trying to carry them—maybe he could get three if Hera could get two? One under each arm and one on his back? There’s heat at his back now, and when he glances over his shoulder he sees light spilling after them.

Hera slows. She’s got one of the miner’s satchels, and she’s rummaging inside it. “Hera?” Kanan says.

“Keep them going!” she orders, and then turns around. “I’m going to place the rest of these detonators—try to blow the passage behind us.”

It’s a good idea, so long as she doesn’t blow herself up too. Kanan hesitates for only a fraction of a second. “You heard her, c’mon!”

He shepherds the miners before him, shouting when they start to flag: “Keep running! You can run!” Ahead of them there’s only darkness and the steeply rising tunnel. Then, behind them, an explosion and the sound of collapsing rock. They all instinctively stop and Kanan turns, shielding his eyes with his hand as the dust cloud washes over him. He’s squinting into the darkness, heart in his throat, when a tiny pinprick of light emerges and strengthens and resolves itself into Hera. Ash-blackened but unharmed, she strides resolutely forward out of the aftermath of the explosion.

He doesn’t see any light behind her. “Did it work?” he asks.

“I think so,” she says. But Aadlan shakes his head.

“A small collapse won’t hold back the magma for long. We must go on.”

Hera nods, reaching again for the miners’ shoulders. “A little farther now, come on, as fast as you can.” Aadlan breaks into a weary jog and Hera pushes the others into motion after him.

They climb, Kanan glancing behind him repeatedly to check for the orange glow that would mean approaching death. He sees only darkness. One of the miners falters and Kanan does stop then, kneeling down: “Get on my back,” he offers. “I’ll carry you.”

Turns out he’s heavier than he looks: dense little guy. Kanan shoulders the weight and jogs after the others. They’ve got to be close to the surface now. He’s no longer sure how long they’ve been running uphill, or how long it’s been since he and Hera descended into the volcano. There’s only the bobbing, weaving blue lights, the glittering surface of the cavern walls, and the heavy push of one foot in front of another.

And then, abruptly, the others stop. Kanan, bringing up the rear, is the last to see it. It takes a moment for his eyes to process: blackness ahead, but not the blackness of the dark tunnel leading forward. This is a flat and reflective black. This is…this is a plug of rock left from the _last_ time this passage flooded with magma, now cooled and hardened to solid basalt.

“You’re miners,” Hera says, her tone determined. “How do we get past this?”

There’s no answer, not for a long time. Finally Aadlan says: “Explosives. Earth-movers. Or the tools we have and a month of hard labor.”

“We used all the explosives,” Hera says briskly: admitting the truth, but not admitting defeat. “What are the tools we have? Can we rig up a drill?”

Kanan bends down, letting the man he’s carrying slide off his back. No one is answering Hera. “Here,” she says into the silence, and pulls out a water canteen. “We’ll pass around the water, and I want to hear _ideas_.”

Kanan has an idea, but it’s not one that she’ll want to hear. Kanan’s thinking about the passage that they sealed off behind them. There may or may not be magma pulsing against the other side of that makeshift wall, a pressure building and building until it bursts the dam and floods upon them all—but that, astoundingly enough, is no longer his top concern. If there’s no exit to the surface this way, then there’s no airflow. They’ve trapped themselves in a small bubble of atmosphere, and they’re exhausting it with every breath. Even the filtration masks can’t save them when the oxygen runs out.

 _You said they’ll die of thirst,_ he’d asked Zien _. Why not suffocation?_ And now here they are.

Hera is demanding to see their vibropicks and their lase-shovels. She’s pulling out all the equipment that Zien sent with them, too. Given time, she probably _could_ build a drill.

But it’s time that they won’t have.

Something shifts under his feet, minutely. The rockrender? It senses explosions, the miner said. A number of things click in Kanan’s mind, both danger and possibility suddenly coming clear.

“We have a drill!” he says. “We _have_ a drill.”

Five tired Sullustans and one hopeful Twi’lek are looking at him. “The rockrender,” Kanan says. “The rockrender felt the explosion you set, Hera. It’s coming up.”

“But if it breaks through the wall—” Hera objects.

“If it breaks through _that_ wall, we all die in magma. If it breaks through _this_ wall…”

“We escape!” Hera cries. “Yes!” She wheels on the miners. “I know the explosives are gone but we need to divert the rockrender. Draw it here. What pulls it, vibrations? A certain rhythm? What?”

There’s a ripple of Sullustese. They’re talking again, finally, and their voices sound hopeful. Kanan steps over to Hera and drops his head near hers. “Keep them busy,” he whispers. “Don’t let them go looking for me.”

She looks up at him, startled. “Where are you going?” she breathes.

“I’m going to whistle up a rockrender,” he says wryly. “If I don’t come back…”

Her face sets. “I am _not_ leaving you here.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say that. If I don’t come back, you should absolutely go look for me. You owe me fifty credits for my first week’s wages.”

He can’t see her mouth behind the mask, but from the way the corners of her eyes crinkle, he thinks that she’s smiling. Even here—even in the darkness, even filthy and hot, even trapped underground in a volcano with five exhausted Sullustans and an exciting array of imminent deaths—it’s a good feeling, making her smile.

He holds on to that as he steps back down the dark tunnel. He goes until he can no longer see the others’ lights. And then he closes his eyes, reaches out a hand—and calls.

Finding the rockrender in the Force is not too hard. Other than Hera and the miners, it’s the only living thing nearby. But connecting with it—that’s difficult. Kanan hasn’t used the Force this way in eight years.

Mostly, he’s tried to cut off all connections. Cauterizing them, when necessary. Because when he lets anyone close, they die. Like Okadiah. Like Master Billaba. Like Stance, and even Grey and Stiles. People who care about Kanan _die_.

And the rockrender doesn’t understand that. The rockrender is a solitary creature, as much immune to loneliness as it is immune to magma. It looks for weak points in the earth, so that it can uncover and consume the minerals it needs to live. That’s all it does.

That can’t be all it does. Where do baby rockrenders come from? Surely there must come a time when even a rockrender can no longer bear to be alone.

“I,” Kanan whispers. “I can’t be alone anymore.” He lowers his head, brows knitting together, and shifts his fingers. Shifts his focus. Instead of trying to align himself with the rockrender, he pushes his need out to it.

At the edges of his awareness, there is a star. Shining in the darkness. She doesn’t belong there; she needs to be returned to the sky. Kanan is the comet that will follow her. All of these concepts are utterly alien to the rockrender, but its dim and distant interest has been piqued. Kanan pulls his fingers together, draws back his clenched fist. _Calls_ the rockrender in with the force of his will.

The ground shudders beneath his feet. Kanan backs up, a few paces at first, then turns to an outright run. “It’s coming!” he shouts as he crests the incline to the others. “The rockrender is coming!”

“Gather in!” It’s Aadlan shouting commands. “Crouch down, backs against the tunnel wall—heads between your knees, hands behind your necks!”

Kanan pushes in with the others. The earthquake-protection pose is familiar, probably the same on every world. Protect the head. They’re crouched in a line, two Sullustans on his left and three—and Hera—on his right. The ground shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

Then the tunnel explodes, rocks and debris raining everywhere. The others curl farther inward. Kanan raises his head and throws out his hand, pushing a Force-barrier around them all. Old reflexes. Old techniques. The rocks scatter harmlessly around them.

The rockrender looms up, swinging its tusked, trowel-shaped head over them all. Kanan makes another gesture and puts all his will behind it. _That way_ , he thinks. _Please._ And then he just pushes out an inchoate rush of longing: _sky_ and _star_ and _I can’t be alone anymore_. There’s emotion in it, but he’s fundamentally drawing on something deeper; he’s drawing on true need. This is how the universe must be ordered if he is to exist in it. There must be air, and there must be light, and he cannot be alone.

The rockrender turns. It puts its tusks and its claws to the rock. There’s a flurry of motion, and another hail of stones which Kanan continues to deflect.

And then there’s light. Dazzling, dazzling light. The others raise their heads, lifting their hands over their faces: Kanan’s own outstretched hand doesn’t seem so out of place among them. The rockrender claws its way out to the surface and stands blinded under the sky, turning its massive head from side to side in mute bewilderment.

“Come on. Go. Go. Kanan, come on.”

He’s the rockrender. He’s shaking his head under an unfamiliar sky. He doesn’t understand how his legs work anymore.

“Aadlan, take them. Kanan. Up.”

Kanan drags in a huge, painful gasp of air. Hera’s arms are under his, tugging him up. He can’t believe how weak his knees are. He staggers, and thinks: _of course_. It’s been eight years since he pulled so much of the Force through his own body. He’s forgotten how it scours him afterwards. There’s nothing—he’s got nothing left.

Hera’s still talking to him. Babbling, really. She’s not making a lot of sense, but her voice is a steady thread that he can cling to, just as he clings to her slender unyielding frame. “Kanan. Come on. Up, that’s right. Don’t worry about the rockrender, I think it’s fine. We’re going up. Yes. Another step. Yes. Keep walking, Kanan, keep walking.”

Even as she’s talking, more of himself is slipping away. “My name,” he gasps.

“Yes,” she says. “Keep walking, Kanan, that’s right.”

Worlds are shifting beneath his feet. In one step it’s Sullust. In another it’s Coruscant, or Kaller. “Is that my name? Who am I?”

She stops, then, and puts her gloved hand on his cheek. “You’re Kanan Jarrus,” she says, with such complete assurance that he believes her. He’s convinced. “You’re my first mate. I owe you fifty credits and I _need you to walk_.”

So he walks.

There’s something very big above them. Red, with four legs. Just standing there as they stagger out onto the surface. “Don’t worry about the rockrender,” Hera says soothingly. “Keep walking.”

But he does worry. There’s something he has to tell it. He knows exactly how it feels as it looks onto this unfamiliar, hellish landscape: a whole environment, a whole galaxy to which it isn’t adapted to survive. The rockrender is a beautifully crafted engine, precisely calibrated to the task for which it was designed—but Kanan brought it here, to a place it was never meant to see. For the first time in its existence, it’s afraid.

Kanan looks up at the rockrender, and says the thing that seems kindest in the moment. “Run,” he rasps.

For one last time, the creature swings its tusked head under the ash-clouded skies. Then it turns, scrabbling back under the earth. Rocks and pebbles rain down around Kanan and Hera—he doesn’t have the strength to block them. One strikes him, hard, in the shoulder, and a moment later he feels Hera wince too. All he can do is keep walking where he’s led. _Blast_. He’s really over-reached himself.

“What’s wrong with him?” That’s Aadlan. Kanan lifts his head enough to do a headcount: one-two-three-four-five Sullustans. Good.

“A rock hit him in the head,” Hera lies smoothly.

And then—and then—there’s another small pressure on his other side. Isn’t that the person he was carrying before? Now wrapping a stubby arm around his hips. Pushing him up, pushing him on.

They walk under soot-black skies. Kanan certainly isn’t leading, but Hera seems to know where they’re going: instrument readings, maybe? Maybe she can see better than he can, his vision’s smeared with the swirling ash. At least there’s filtered light around him, and air, however polluted. At least there’s someone close against him on each side. It’s enough to go on. He can live with this.

Kanan staggers, still uphill. Always uphill. It’s one foot in front of the other, it’s one breath drawn after the next. He’s almost stunned when the harsh black winds part to reveal something man-made: a shuttle, white and squat. The _Phantom_.

Hera drops his arm in order to open the hatch, and Kanan just stands there, swaying slightly. It’s a good thing there’s still a small person on his other side, holding him up. Did he once say Sullustans were mostly assholes? What a sleemo he was.

One by one they duck into the shuttle. Kanan and his little pal have a short, silent struggle over who’ll be last before Kanan decides that his dignity won’t allow him to lose a wrestling match with a dehydrated Sullustan, so he’d better throw the contest preemptively. He lets himself be patted into the shuttle, but he does turn around and offer a hand up as soon as he’s inside.

It’s tight in the shuttle. Hera’s in the cockpit, of course, but all the passenger seats are occupied by Kanan and the miners. As soon as they’re fastened in the _Phantom_ shudders into the air. Kanan can’t possibly help Hera steer, so instead he just closes his eyes and hopes.

The takeoff is twisty, but they gain altitude rapidly, and the Phantom’s course straightens out once they’re high enough. “Best pilot in the Outer Rim,” Kanan says triumphantly, as if anybody had been arguing the point with him. His miner buddy gives an approving chuckle, and Kanan claps him on the shoulder.

“You’re going home,” Kanan says. “You’re all going home.”

Aadlan laughs then too, but there are twin milky streams falling from the corners of his eyes, and Kanan mists up a little himself.

“Aadlan?” Hera says from the cockpit. “Should I com ahead to have medical personnel meet us at Pinyumb?”

There’s some low conversation among the miners. Then: “Yes,” says Aadlan. “Make it public. They can’t assassinate me without plausible deniability.”

The com operator in Pinyumb makes Hera repeat herself three times, but eventually the message seems to go through. Once the transmission is cut off, Hera says: “I didn’t actually tell you everything, Aadlan. It’s true that your daughter asked us to rescue you. But I came to Sullust because I was hoping to speak to you about the Cobalt Laborers' Reformation Front.”

“You’ve seen what they’ll do to silence us,” Aadlan says bitterly.

“And will you?” Hera’s voice is compassionate, but strong. “Will you be silenced?”

Aadlan blinks slowly, once and then again. “No,” he says at last. “No, I won’t.”

“You’re not alone,” Hera says. “On many worlds, in many ways, others are resisting oppression and fighting for justice. We’d like to count you as a friend.”

Aadlan nods. “Friends,” he says, and then the others are nodding too. “Friends to you always.”

***

There’s a small crowd gathered at the dock when they land at Pinyumb again. Some in medical uniforms, some in SoroSuub uniforms. Zien Mydar and her mother push to the front, running to embrace Aadlan. Others in the crowd rush to the sides of the other miners. There are tears, cries of joy, fierce embraces—Kanan feels like an awkward observer, until Zien releases her father and flings her arms around his legs. Now he’s an awkward _participant_.

“Thank you,” she chokes out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Kanan pats her head and looks for Hera. She’ll know what to do. He hates having so many eyes on him; he’s always helped people when he could, but only when it wouldn’t draw attention. This kind of situation is a worst-case scenario.

“Zien,” Hera soothes. “Go with your father. He knows how to contact me. We’ll talk again.”

Attention mercifully shifts away from Kanan and Hera as the miners are taken into the care of the medics. Nobody stops them as Hera heads for the turbolift, Kanan following a step behind. When they’re safely ensconced in the lift, gazing over the twilit cavern city, Hera turns to him.

“How are you?” she asks, her eyes traveling over him.

“Better,” Kanan says tersely. “Tired. Very tired.” He profoundly does not want to talk about it. What he wants to do instead is find that liquor store, buy a bottle of something, drink it, pass out, and spend a full ten to twelve hours in dreamless sleep.

“I couldn’t have saved those people without you,” she says quietly.

Under the bone-deep exhaustion, there’s an unfamiliar sort of feeling. It’s not bad, but it would take him some time to figure out what it is. Maybe it’s a lack of a feeling. “It was a good day’s work,” he manages.

She looks at him speculatively, then smiles. “I said I’d have a bonus for you. For successful completion of mission objectives.” She’s unsnapping her cargo pocket as she speaks, and she reaches in to pull out a fistful of still-wriggling drutash grubs. Her eyes are sparkling as she holds her hand out to him.

“Uh,” Kanan says. _I have some better ideas, if you want to reward me_. No, he shouldn’t say that; that would make her stop smiling. “Uh,” he says again, instead.

“Kanan, they’re very valuable here!”

“You keep ‘em,” he says magnanimously.

She huffs, and returns the grubs to her pocket. “I’ll show you.” When the lift doors open, she marches off determinedly. Kanan follows—at least she’s headed more or less in the direction of the liquor store.

She turns into some kind of specialty food store. Kanan recognizes sea cabbage, jogan fruit, podpoppers and bristlemelons, B'omarr-style pickles and more. Some of these things could be grown hydroponically on Sullust, but most would have to be imported. Hera dumps her grubs onto the counter with a flourish, and the sentient behind the counter (not a human or a Sullustan—Kanan would not like to guess at the shopkeeper’s planet of origin or preferred pronouns) whistles appreciatively. They immediately enter into a protracted negotiation that ends with Hera collecting four hundred-credit chips. Kanan’s impressed despite himself.

She turns to him, holding out one of the chips. “See?”

He takes it. “Not bad,” he admits. “Not bad at all.”

For that, he gets another smile. “I’m going to stock up on some basic supplies. Meet you back at the _Phantom_ in a hour?”

“Sure,” he says.

He’s following her out of the store when he notices her eyeing the bristlemelons. She goes so far as to pick one up, testing its weight and give in her hand, before looking at the price on the stall and putting it back with a slight shake of her head. When she leaves, Kanan lingers.

A hundred credits could buy him a really nice bottle of something, Corellian whiskey maybe. Or he could spend eighty credits on some decent food and have twenty left over for a handle of bottom-shelf rotgut hooch. He looks over at the shopkeeper. “You got meat here too?”

“Local stuff,” they rumble, jerking their head. “In the cold case.”

He ends up buying a large bird carcass, plucked and cleaned (“ash angel,” it’s labeled) along with some root vegetables to roast it with, and fresh greens for a salad. Then he needs a little flask of nut oil and another bottle of vinegar, to dress the salad. And two of the bristlemelons. The running tally in his head is at eighty credits now, and he’s just heading to the counter when his eye falls on a shelf of dried beans. It’s very pretty, the legumes of all different colors and sizes arranged in a sort of muted rainbow. The prices are about ten credits a bag but the bags are large, and beans will keep—there will be leftovers from the roast, and those can be stretched for days with the addition of some broad beans to a soup broth, or a handful of shredded meat stirred into a pot of pease porridge.

The shopkeeper notices him looking at the shelf. “Good for space travel,” they grunt. “Lots of minerals.”

An image of those little labeled cannisters flashes into his mind. Magnesium. Potassium. _Wherever you grew up, food scarcity wasn’t an issue._ I _grew up on Ryloth._

“Yeah,” Kanan sighs. “Get me a bag of the big white ones and a bag of the little red ones.” Maybe he’s tired enough to sleep without nightmares, or to sleep through them, anyway. There will be other worlds with other booze shops. He’d rather give Hera a week where she doesn’t have to eat rocks.

He leaves the store broke again, but with a satisfyingly hefty bag of groceries. Making his way back to the _Phantom_ , he has a little more time to turn over the sense of something different in his mind. This kind of introspection would normally be something he’d want to avoid, something that would make him look for any possible distraction: a fight, a seduction, a fifth or sixth shot. At the moment, though, it’s not aggravating. He doesn’t particularly mind the inside of his own head right now.

And that’s the different thing, right there. He knows abstractly that he and Hera did some good on Gorse: they averted a huge planetary disaster. But people died—including someone that, despite Kanan's own best efforts to alienate everyone, had cared about him. And who he had cared for very much. That sense of grief and shame is all too familiar to him; it’s what he’s normally looking to obliterate with his brawling and carousing. He’s self-aware enough to understand his poor choices even as he’s making them.

But today, on Sullust, he didn’t lose anyone. He let himself be led to the right place, at the right time, to bring a father back to his family. And to reunite four other people with their loved ones. And, he supposes, to get Hera another contact for her revolutionary network—though that doesn’t mean nearly as much to him as the memory of Zien clinging to his legs and sobbing out her thanks.

Sometimes it’s like there are two separate people in his head, and they hate each other: Caleb Dume, the poor dumb little Jedi who wanted to protect the galaxy and couldn’t even protect himself, and Kanan Jarrus, the cocky gunslinger who cares for nothing and no one. But right now, today, Caleb isn’t ashamed of Kanan and Kanan doesn’t resent Caleb. They both agree that it was a good day. They’re both happy about the outcome. And they’re both _really_ looking forward to seeing Hera’s face when the roasted ash angel comes out of the galley.

Not bad for his first day on the job. Not bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Many other fan writers have tackled the early days of Kanan and Hera's relationship, and scenes like the one in the galley have appeared in other stories too. The idea that Hera can't cook is pretty widely accepted fanon and I subscribe to it as well; I think it was the [askkananjarrus](http://askkananjarrus.tumblr.com/) blog on Tumblr where I first heard, and immediately adopted, that headcanon.
> 
> If you like stories set in this time period I'd recommend [Close Only Counts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3967084) by gondalsqueen, [The New Guy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6609793) by Hrive1, and [Playing Against Type](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11906128/1/Playing-Against-Type) by Mirror and Image.


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